


Observations of A Slayer

by CharbroilLaFlamme



Category: Doom (Video Games)
Genre: Bethesda, Blood, Blood and Violence, Demons, Doom, Doom Guy - Freeform, Doom Slayer - Freeform, Eldritch, Explicit Language, Gen, Guns, Hell, Prophecy, References to Greek Religion and Lore, Shooting Guns, demon killing, religious reference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 06:50:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14764689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharbroilLaFlamme/pseuds/CharbroilLaFlamme
Summary: Whoop, a Doom 2016 thingy.Mind the language and blood! Trying to scrape the rust off my violent writing.





	Observations of A Slayer

There was the slightest clinking of bullet casings escaping the barrel of Doom-guy’s chain-gun into the swarming masses of lesser demons. The click of talons, the susurrations of bare feet, whispers of exhalation and the small hiss of bodies returning to the Argent.

But something had all but escaped his keen senses. It was like echolocation as the very slightest sound bounced wall to wall and hit something pretty goddamn _huge._

Of course, he could see it, glowing eyes, slick skin with blood and offal.

And it had _guns_ —big unnatural monstrosities, fused bone and rock. Something of a scientific wonder.

Toothy mandibles dripping with saliva and whatever foulness it produced. And the broken manacle chains dragging across the brimstone floor.

And it _stunk_ to high Heaven. Even past Doom-guy’s mask and respirator.

He was lucky enough to have a strong gut for this sort of thing.

One thing slipped in with his thoughts. A word. A name. An archaic memory.

 _Mancubus_. A large, gluttonous, rotting, fetid beast. He remembered that it had a permanent grimace smeared across its face and a gut barely held together by fleshy threads and tendons, like seams. It fed upon the bodies of the decomposing dead. Hell’s janitors.

His gun clicked in his arms as he looked up at its rotund stature, the bandolier rustling across his own armoured shoulder.

His sweaty brow, his breaths fogging his green-tinted faceplate, he could make it out, its posture, its great barrel of a body half-obscured by the darkness behind it.

His heart throbbed with the thrill of ten-thousand slaughters leading up to the prize of slaying the final boss. _What was one more to the count?_

It laughed. Foolishly. Levelling its oversized arms forward. The crudely sculpted spiral barrels of its arm-guns lit up within, like a dragon’s throat. The twin weapons vomited a flickering orange-red light across the ground.

Its clawed feet—misshapen cloven hooves—kicked the dust up behind it. Like an eldritch bull.

Its eyes glowed like embers, and its girthed silhouette blocked the hallway’s length from view.

... Not that Doom-guy had an issue with this, per-se. He had faced far worse.

Its mouth parted—in four places—as it let out a guttural howl, giving Doom-guy a lovely view of the back of its throat in the process.

Doom-guy felt nothing resembling fear for this member of Hell’s ecosystem. Only a lingering sense of familiarity. And annoyance. And a desire to tell it to _fuck off and die_.

But still it stayed, asserting itself with yet another gurgled roar into the air at him.

He shoved the barrel of his well-used chain gun into its mouth and let ‘er rip.

The death machine revved to speed, breaking its jaw wide open so quickly Doom-guy hadn’t a chance to blink. Shooting bullets clean through the back of its head until no head was left.

Only a still-moving forked tongue and shattered pieces of jaw remained. The body seemed to fall in place, to knees—and finally down on its belly, as something resembling a last breath escaped the corpse’s airway.

 _A waste of ammo_ , Doom-guy admitted as he looked up at the blood splashed ceiling.

And not as up close and personal as he would have liked—since his chainsaw had been gummed up by demon bits and a few teeth.

He continued on down the bleak hall, leaving the bloated carcass in the middle of the corridor. Wandering between the torches. Breathing the air, listening for something, anything.

He realised he wasn’t alone when something even bigger, badder—something like Hell’s own bastardised form of Hercules—had decided to make itself known. Fast, and ruthless, and fought like one of the mighty gladiators of old. Not much far from what they were.

Fallen from grace—one of Hell’s mightiest, now reduced to a gang of vicious pit fighters in a crude colosseum. 

Its massive paws gripped the stone edge, dragging itself up from the depths below, high above an orange, sulphuric void—from which screams of the damned oozed.

 _A Hell Knight_. Superiorly bred, an absolute monster. One hoof reached the ledge and it heaved the rest of its bulk up over the side. The sound escaping its maw, a stentorian baying. Deep and rumbling.

Doom-guy had catalogued this moment in his mind, the world slowed, the adrenaline flowed, each muscle tightened in unison as this sinewy predator came full tilt after him. Body sculpted by a council of perverted, sacrilegious gods. Lusting for the chaste bodies of angels, but settling with the complete opposite—something else. 

The two of them met gazes, Doom-guy wished to greet this beast like an old friend, but opted to blast its right leg clean off instead with two shotgun blasts just below the knee.

The savagery didn’t end, as it fell, but had the strength still to meet Doom-guy’s challenge head on.

He remembered in passing his formal title as the Doom Slayer. Scourge of Hell. Hell Walker. Unchained Predator. And all variations. He never really cared for the righteousness and the titles and the prophecies.

But he knew he was born for something, resurrected for something.

Perhaps as a knight for good, but perhaps not. Different strokes.

He concluded that there were two sides to every prophecy.

And that prophecy in itself was a pretty touchy business.

But most of that sort of philosophical talk made him bored nowadays, made his head hurt, and his trigger finger twitch.

 

* * *

 

Doom-guy sat on the back of the dismantled corpse of the Hell Knight in one final act of defiance as he thought deeply.

The growls and howls and chitters of more cannon fodder could be heard in the distance. The slight boom of war drums, and a gnarling, muffled quake. The squalid, sprawling landscape of Hell lie still before Doom-guy, a highland of pain and suffering. Of burning. Where the dead come to serve their sentences. And then die again. It was ripe for the razing. And had certainly changed since he had last _paid his respects_.

The Doom Slayer had come again, as it was time for Hell to pay the death toll.

He swam the river Styx, killed the ferryman and stuck his head on a pike—stabbing two Drachmas into his vacant eye sockets.

T’was no wonder why the Doom Slayer was their version of the Devil.


End file.
